That Grinds My Gears

I'm big on family. No, huge on family. I have two brothers and two sisters, a nephew, and a wonderful extended family of aunts and uncles and in-laws and grandparents and cousins. And don't forget the spirit on my shoulder who I call mom. I love to attend family functions. It feels as if I really try to make time to talk/see/visit my family. In college, I went home at least once a month to visit. Post college, I lived closer to home and went to visit as often as possible. Sometimes multiple weekends in a row. Maybe this is abnormal. Although, not once have I heard complaints that I'm coming around all too often. We always use the time to catch up, go shopping, or make a fancy meal.

So maybe I am being close-minded when I say that I can't understand those people who make a special effort to stay away from their perfectly nice family. I can understand not wanting to be around a not-so-nice family member... I have a few members of my brood in that same category. Who doesn't? When you're parents invite you to dinner and you make some lame excuse to get out of spending time with them, when a family member offers up a word of advice and you disregard it completely, when you talk badly about family to other people, when you can't pick up a phone once a month to give someone a call... these things I don't understand. What kind of person can give such blatant disregard for the people with whom you share a familial connection?

In the wise words of Peter Griffin, that really grinds my gears.

As I pretend I haven't been MIA

Happy summer to you all. Oh wait, it's over. I know this because of the 65 degree weather we've been presented with the last week or so. Foolishly I wished for fall weather and now that it's here, I hope and hope each day that Mother Nature will take pity on me and throw a few 90's my way. Pretty please? Not that Bridge Man and I haven't taken full advantage of the summers glorious, gloriousness. We travel somewhere nearly every weekend. A few trips to Six Flags to enjoy some roller coaster mayhem. Yes, I'm almost thirty and still enjoy a good coaster thrashing. Although I can't take it as long as I could have ten years ago. By the end of the day I will require two Advil and my fluffy pillow, please and thank you.

In June we drove to the southern most point of Missouri to enjoy some time on the farm. Also known as Bridge Man's favorite past time. We spent four glorious days getting poison ivy and bug bites, lighting fireworks, and shooting guns. Good times. I really did enjoy the trip although I can't help but be bitter. My skin has taken a beating this summer. Sunburns, poison everything, bug bites, a few more sunburns, and a few more buggy bites. Before this summer I maybe got one or two bug bites a year and never had poison anything in my life. Did you know you can develop an allergy to poison ivy? Well you can. Over the last few months calamine lotion, Off!, and SPF 85 have been my best friends.

In July we flew to California to see some of the family. Also known as Xteener's favorite past time. That's always a fabulous trip. We are planning to take the in-laws out there next summer. It should be so fun! Big Ma, that's what we call my MIL, wants to do all the tourist-type things which I love. When we go out there I try to act like I'm a regular California girl. Been there, done that. I'm fooling no one, I haven't lived there in over a decade. Seeing the Hollywood sign still makes me squeal a little. If your cross your eyes and squint a little, you can see it. This was before I found the digital zoom on my camera.

And of course August means that I'm no longer a newlywed. Bridge Man and I celebrated our one year wedding anniversary with a weekend trip to our Alma mater. We visited all the sites that were so fabulous back then. They are still just as fabulous. For a dinky, little college town there is a lot to do. Wining, dining, and lounging. That's how we spent our college years. (Maybe the first weekend before classes started.)

As always with the end of summer, there is a bit of a let down. A "what's next" kind of attitude. If I slow down too much I become like a hibernating bear. You may not see me again until next spring. No worries, my pretty, Bridge Man and I have some things in the works. A possible relocation, new jobs, new house, new everything. We shall see.

Jaded

I'm in a bit of a snarky mood. A cumulation of events has brought me to this place. I try not to get too personal when writing here but we all know how unsuccessful I've been with that. Who cares though, it's my blog. If I say something someone else doesn't like they can type up in that little tool bar doo-hickey and be gone in an Internet flash. But I would really appreciate if you stayed. You see, all the personal ramblings seem to help a little. Knowing that maybe one person read, and maybe even related to what I wrote helps me to cope.

Unfortunately, I haven't talked about this in the past so I have no choice but to fill you in on the arduous back story. My 20 year-old sister has been living with Bridge Man and me since December. She got herself into trouble living on her own and needed some help. We agreed to take her in but with some stipulations. No drugs, no alcohol, no boyfriends at the house. We did not want her bringing the drama of her past into our lives.

We talked to her about going to school and getting a good job. We talked about paying off her old debts. We talked to her about staying away from friends who might sway her back into old habits. We've done a lot of talking over these past five months. Instead of getting a good job and going to school she sleeps all day, goes to work for a few hours as a waitress, comes home to stay up and watch TV all night, only to start the cycle again in the morning. After a few weeks of this I get frustrated and talk to her again. She needs to get motivated, to DO something with her life. She gets motivated for a day or two and then falls back into old habits.

A few months into her stay with us we find her drug paraphernalia in our spare bedroom. I get mad. She cries and tells me that it's the only thing that helps her to get past all the bad things that have happened to her. I feel bad for her. One more chance.

She takes my clothes. She stole my makeup. She went through my filing cabinet to find stamps and paper to write to her boyfriend who is currently in jail. These things go on every week she is here. Whatever, she's a ignorant teenager who does ignorant stuff. A month or so goes by. A bottle of Vicodin that Bridge Man had after a surgical procedure comes up missing. She denies all allocations. Last week, I opened a bottle of wine and had a glass. This week the bottle is missing. She denies all allocations. A few days ago I pick her up from work and she is wearing my scarf. Straw, camel, broken back.

I flipped out. I screamed at her the entire 10 minute drive home. I flail my arms wildly and hit my fists into the steering wheel. (Side note: I should not have been driving at that moment.) I screamed so loudly that I was hoarse for the next two days.

I am at the end of my rope. Everything of value has been taken out of the spare bedroom where she sleeps and stuffed into our bedroom. Everything that cannot be taken out has been locked up, tied down, or hidden somewhere else. I organize things in the medicine cabinet in a way I can tell if someone has been in there.

I am living in a prison. My house has become a prison.

I grew up with drug addicts and alcoholics my whole life. I made the decision a long time ago to stay away from those substances because I didn't want to end up the way so many in my family have. My mom, my brothers, my sisters and myself were abused by addicts for so long. And now I have invited an addict into my house to take advantage of the fact that I am her sister. She knows that I won't kick her out. What would happen to her if I did kick her out? She would go back to the unhealthy life she was living. If anything bad was to happen to her because I kicked her out... I couldn't imagine the guilt.

Nov. 30th

Tomorrow is one of those can't-get-out-of-my head type days. It's like anticipating a holiday or anniversary but without the excitement. The anticipation is more about the unknown. I don't know if I'll be a sobbing mess or if I'll be able to plaster on a cheesy smile and sail through the day. Tomorrow marks the 365th day since my mom passed away. What makes this day verses any other different is beyond me. I continue to mourn her death no matter what day of the week. It seems almost morbid to mark tomorrow as an anniversary because the word is associated with positive things, a first date, a first kiss, a wedding. Unfortunately, the date brings with it words I haven't been able to get out of my mind for the last month, "At this time last year I was..." And for the last month that phrase ended with, counting respirations, administering morphine, dressing wounds and telling my sweet, sweet mother how much I love her for the last time.

This last month has been a roller coaster of emotions. At one minute I'm smiling and laughing with friends, the next minute I'm sitting silently in a blank daze, and the next I'm fighting to hold back tears that are taking over. Those closest to me were warned from the beginning and have been more than understanding. It seems impossible that I just made it through one year without someone who was, for so long, involved 100% in my life as I was in hers. It seems impossible that I am to continue for the next years without her. That any future children I have will not know how wonderful she was. Sure, I can tell stories but they will never know her voice, her touch, her personality.

People called her stubborn. I call it strong. She fought her disease for two years as a single mother of five children and one grandchild. She worked a job until the day she went into the hospital for her final surgery. And when the doctor called me that night to tell me she had two days to live, she fought for two weeks. Two weeks that allowed us to talk, laugh, cry, and be a family. Two weeks for her to make sure she had taken care of everything and that her children would be OK when she was gone. She did her job. We are OK.

A Beautiful Thing: Part II

That Sunday, the last day of our trip in California was the day we, as a family, were going to scatter my mom's ashes into the Pacific ocean. Where the five of us, her children, decided it was most appropriate. There were some upsets during the course of the day. Drama including people who are uncomfortable with their emotions, the emotion churned up when you mourn the passing of your sister/daughter. Looking back, their uncertainty was understandable but I'm glad that we all were there for the final moment.

Once on the boat, we played a collaboration of my mom's favorite music on a portable CD player. We cruised around the harbor for a while in the electronic duffy. The box of my her ashes sat next to me and Maestro. Conversation gradually ceased. I looked across the duffy at my aunt who was mouthing the words to a Wilson Phillips classic, "Hold On." Behind her dark glasses I could see her tears. To her left, my grandpa had his hat pulled down over his face, his eyes glazed but unwavering. The emotions of the moment became overwhelming and this group of hard-headed people broke down. There was not a dry eye on that boat.

When the sweet, sweet words of Tanya Tucker sang through the speakers of that boom-box, "Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on? Could it be a faded rose from days gone by? And did I hear you say he was a-meeting you here today.? To take you to his mansion in the sky," we all sang with the chorus. It was a beautiful moment.

We stopped the boat under a bridge where we chose to scatter her ashes. We all took a handful of petals plucked from red carnations, her favorite flower, and tossed them into the water. Each of us took a moment to scatter some of her ashes into the water until there was a small amount remaining. My grandpa held onto the remaining ashes. I didn't know until later that day that he had saved them for my grandma who was unable to go out on the boat with us. They later scattered them in the back yard of their house. The home in which my mom was raised.

As we rode back to the boat dock we laughed and cried. We remembered. It was a beautiful day and I wouldn't change a single moment.

A Beautiful Thing

As you know, we returned from a family trip to California last week. Everything went swimmingly considering the quantity of people per square footage. For the most part we all got along. And as for the few squabbles that took place, they were to be expected. I can only stand the sight of your smelly socks on my totally chic, totally bohemian purse for so long.

The first day we were there, we spent time catching up with everyone in between catching up on some overdue sleep. Flying with seven, inexperienced travelers takes a lot longer and a lot more effort than it was for just me and the fiancee last summer. But as I look back on our short, five-day stint in the O.C. I am so glad that, through all the chaos, it worked out. This trip was something that the seven of us have been looking forward to since the beginning of the year.

We spent the second day at The J.Paul Getty museum in L.A. If you are ever out that way, I highly recommend checking out this place. Although we only made it through one building, the three hour drive in rush hour traffic on the 405 was totally worth it. And the pièce de résistance; the garden maze/fountain. Absolutely stunning.


That evening we shared with family. My grandpa cooked burgers on the grill while the kiddies played on the grass and a few of us perused some of my grandma's old photo albums. I attempted to take pictures of the photos I wanted to have for myself such as my mom's senior picture from high school.

Keep in mind, this photo is pre-photoshop so I will have to work on editing out my reflection. But wasn't she beautiful?

Or there is the picture that my grandma refuses to take down from it's frame on the wall. The one that everyone points to and laughs, "Is that YOU?"

I'm not sure if it's the stripe of the bathing suit or the poorly placed ruffle, but there is something about this picture that screams, this baby is going to grow up to have thunder thighs and a ba-donk-a-donk to match. (I'm not looking for compliments, I've grown to like (read: accept) my thunder thighs.)

We spent the next day on the beach. The boys went surfing in the early morning and by the time the rest of us showed up they were sufficiently battered and bruised to spend the rest of the day lounging around. I loved the times we all sat around and simply talked. To me that was the point of the whole trip; to reconnect. For these moments, I was in my element. I would sit silently and listen to what everyone had to say. I loved that my younger siblings were so comfortable in an environment that I had grown to love so much as a child and that they knew so little of before the trip.

However, no matter what, the most meaningful part of the trip was that next day, Sunday. It couldn't have been a more meaningful day. (Did I mention that it was meaningful?) However, it's getting late and I need some sleep so I will continue this in a few days. At a time when I am not half asleep on my keyboard and will be able to give the story justice. Until then, nighty-night.

Babies on Parade

The family and I went to California this last week to visit the place I will soon call home. Again. The whole trip had it's ups and downs but one major up was that I got to meet my new cousins. They were both born this last fall and I've been squirming in my seat since then to see their chubby cheeks and their tiny feets.





Also, my favorite nephew got to play with his cousin of the same age while we were out there. They were instantaneously BFFs. They liked to hold hands and share "Thomas Trains" and "moto-cycles."





Admittedly, I went a little shutter happy but there is no way these pictures didn't make you smile.



The best part of it all, these little ones loved their auntie/cousin Xteener from the get-go. Well, for the most part. The beautiful baby with the dark brown hair was a little harder to convince but by the end of the week I could come within three feet of her and she wouldn't cry. She even let me take one of these:

Ten Fingers. Ten Toes.

It was inevitable. Everyone in my family has them. I was genetically destined to inherit the short, stubby fingers and the wide, fat feet of those who came before me. It was a running joke in the family. ‘Flintstone feet’ we called them. And as a five year-old child, I can remember wishing that my hands would someday develop into long, graceful fingers with perfectly shaped nails. But it was my feet that bothered me the most. They were so wide that they could only fit comfortably in shoes made for little boys, one size too big. You see, what my tootsies make up for in width, they lack in length. This nixed any capability I had to wear the jelly sandals I so coveted as a child.

Throughout my adolescence, I never failed to point out my distaste for the feet that I have been doomed to lug around. I would wrap them up tightly with strips of material in order to make them skinnier, or at the very least, prevent them from getting wider. When my mom noticed this for the first time she questioned me about the odd footwear I had donned. When I told her of my intentions I remember seeing a flicker of sadness flash in her eyes before she informed me I should be glad to have all my fingers and toes and then she went about her business. I couldn’t understand why I had made her sad. Why would anyone want to walk around with feet like mine?

In the summer of 2007, I flew out to visit some relatives from my mom’s side of the family in California. I spent five wonderful days there and on the last night we had a small get-together to spend my last night there as a group, as a family. We all sat around in the backyard, barefoot, soaking up the warm, California evening talking, laughing, crying, and simply spending some long overdue time with each other. While the conversations flowed, I sat silently for a moment to look at the special people around me. I looked for similarities in our features. The one thing we all had in common was our feet. This was the first moment in my life that I had ever felt a sense of pride for my fat, wide appendages.

The following November, my mom was hospitalized when the cancer that had seized the last two years of her life, took a turn for the worst. On one particularly late night, I sat next to her hospital bed holding her hand. It was just the two of us. Her temperature was high so she was covered her in a light-weight blanket. Her feet were uncovered, exposing a fresh pedicure and a simple anklet. My mind wandered from her respirations per minute to her physical features. We had the same chin, the same nose, the same hands, the same feet. And while she appeared thin and frail, her feet still had that short, wide shape that notoriously runs in our family.

It didn’t occur to me at that moment but now that I look back and continue to seek out anything to provoke memories of her and her life – movie ticket stubs, journals, jewelry – I’ve realized that one of the best things my mom left behind are the her traits. I’ve come to love the fact that she and I have the same nose, chin, and hands. I love the fact that we have the same Flintstone feet. She gave them to me. And I am reminded every day that a little piece of her lives on with me.

What's in a name?

I've been thinking a lot lately about last names and the importance they hold for some people. Traditionally, you are born, assigned a surname, and that is what you live with for the next few decades. That is, of course, until you are wed and take the name of your significant other or randomly decide to change it because you find the name "Banana Hammock" too hilarious to pass up.

My story is a little different. I can still remember that day when my mama taught me and Bear how to spell our new last name while we waited in the terminal for our flight to Okinawa. I was a mere four years old. I had no idea what was going on. For all I knew, people changed their names every couple of years or so for... security reasons or something like that.

It wasn't until we moved back to the states that I realized that this last name thing was going to be a problem. You see, while I had grown accustomed to my new last name, it was never legally changed. On on the first day of the fourth grade they called out my old name I raised my hand and mumbled, "here," and then, when no one would notice, I would head up to the teachers desk to ask her to refer to me by my new name. And every August, I continued this ritual all the way through my senior year of high school.

I knew that my new name wasn't legal. I simply had no desire to walk around sporting the old one. The whole dead-beat-dad thing, but I won't delve into that until we know each other a little better. When I was in junior high, people started to notice that I would, each year, change the last name that I was to go by and they started asking questions. And while I knew the real reason I would play dumb and blame the continued "mistake" on the faculty and staff of the school. Such an elaborate (moronic) facade.

Post high school, I let the whole thing go. College professors didn't get to know their students well enough, or care enough to remember the girl with two last names; one real and one fake. My friends and family still called me by my new name. But any real conversation/application/etc brought me out of my fantasy surname world. Eventually I caved and accepted my fate, the fate of the last name that I had been hiding from for years. I asked friends, family, and, yes, even Bridge Man to use my old last name. People thought it was strange at first but everyone is now used to it.

So after all of that, you'd think that I would jump at the opportunity to change my last name. But now, as this wedding comes closer I've started to rethink the whole deal. Don't get me wrong, I still despise where the name originates. But it is still my name. Yes, I buried it under the new name for so many years. But I always knew it was there. Yes, I hated it because of how much it segregated Bear and me from the family. No one in our family has our last name. But now, instead of it being a source of segregation, it brings me and Bear (and now my nephew) closer than ever. I can't help but feel that the moment I become Mrs. Bridge Man I will have lost that connection.

This fear, I'll admit, is ridiculous. A last name doesn't define who a person is. But, if that is true, why are there people who fight to keep their original surname? Why are there people who judge those who don't change their last name after marriage? If this isn't a big deal... then what's the big deal?

Cinderelly Ramblings

In my family there are five of us chick-a-dees. Let me introduce you: I have referred to her as S in the past, but I find that solitary letters as names are hard to read and so I dub thee Bear. Bear is the oldest of the crew and can be described as boisterous and clumsy. Ironically those adjectives describe her precisely. She will tell you exactly what she’s thinking without a second thought and then she will fall down the stairs. Not joking.

Since I’m going in age order here the next sibling in line would be me. I won’t delve into a personal biography here seeing as you should already know about my neurosis from blogs past.

Next in line is the baby girl of the bunch. You may know her as A but I think that she too deserves a blog name: Smash. Most would say that Smash is the blond, Barbie-like version of me. She has the same fiery attitude and the same ability to cry at the drop of a pretty pink Treesje handbag.

Number four brings us to the first of the testosterone ridden members of this faction. His blog name is quite easy for me to come up with as no one ever calls him by his real name. You may know him as B, but from now on he shall be referred to as Bud. He’s the Einstein of the family. When he was in the 3rd grade he could recite every American president and vice president – in chronological order.

I know there are a lot of us but this I the last one, I promise.

He has been known as Z in previous posts but shall be now known as Maestro. This name is one that I gave him a long, long time ago. It is one that he has hated but that I have refused to let go of. Maestro it is. From the day he was born you could tell that he was going to be one mischievous little punk and that proved to be more than true. He has actually knocked his teeth back up into his gums, gotten his finger stuck in some type of metal device and had to have it sawed off (the device, not the finger), and has had a plethora of injuries from severe road rash to being knocked unconscious.

What’s the point to all of this? Well, not only is it to introduce you all to my crazy, wonderful siblings but also to bring you to my point; one of my favorite and least favorite childhood pastimes.

It was no secret in my family; we kids were of little use when it came to cleaning or picking up after ourselves. It was so well known that my grandma sent me a Valentine’s Day card and wrote on the inside: Happy Valentine’s Day Xteener. Do help your mama like you helped me when you were here. Then you might get off restriction. Wouldn’t that be nice? I don't even have to tell you how pathetic this is, but don't judge me people, I've since grown up.

There was no way my mom was going to let us off without chores of any kind. She would type up a monthly schedule of what chores were to be done each day and by whom. (Wash the dishes Cinderelly, clean the toilette Cinderelly.) And each Saturday was dubbed “extra-special-cleaning-day.” This meant that fan blades were dusted, knobs were sanitized, and floors were mopped. We were constantly cleaning. Strangely enough we kids never seemed to grasp the concept of picking up after ourselves, the place was always a mess, and the topic became a constant struggle within our household.

Here’s where all of my rambling comes together – sort of.

My mama was a clever woman. While all five of her messy children are polar opposites, there are two things that tie us together. Song and dance. My mom knew that if she wanted anything to get done she had to make it fun for us. She would put her Dolly Parton CD into the player and crank the volume. Not only was extra-special-cleaning-day productive but it was fun! (OK, I realize I sound like Monica Geller right now. Maybe you had to be there to experience the fun that is musical-cleaning.)

So in summary: chores, not my favorite. I’d rather do long division than fold laundry. Music and dance – I love! Combine the two, a tolerable and effective way to get me to do chore-type things.

I love that my family is so musical. We all inherited the music gene. This doesn’t mean that we all can sing like Pavarotti. Heck no. This just means that we have every lyric to every song ever made memorized and stored away for future use. During a regular-every-day conversation any one of us can pull out something that was said and make it into a song or find a song that has those exact (or similar) lyrics. Let me give you an example.

Bridge Man, I can’t get my car key out of the ignition.

Did you put it in park?

Oh. Ha ha. Makes sense. Thanks. You’re my hero.

And then I break into a rendition of “Wind Beneath My Wings” that rivals the vocal talents of Bette Midler herself. I'm just cool like that. I’m in a family/memories/reminiscing type mood. So what are your favorite and least favorite childhood memories? Does your family have any traits that are uniquely your own?

11/30/07 - Mom, rest in peace

What I will be reading at my mom's funeral tomorrow. Cross your fingers that I make it through.

***

My mom always said that she didn’t want her funeral to be a sad one. So we thought we could accomplish this with photos chock full of Farah Fawcet hair, plastic triangle earrings that complement bright green eye shadow, and an assortment of hair colors that she would want you to think came about naturally.

Her personality is reflected not only within the pictures displayed before you or the music that you hear but in the memories that she left. Each of you has a favorite memory of my mom that’s all your own and that no one else may know or even understand, whether it was the first time you heard her sing “Delta Dawn” on karaoke night or the time you saw her squeal like a school girl when she got to meet David Allen Coe.

My favorite memory isn’t just one memory, but an era. An entire era of our lives that, to me, seems defined by the way my mom, S and I would cruise around in her yellow Volkswagen Beetle, jamming to Madonna’s latest hit song, headed to Mickey-D’s to get Happy Meals. Or picking up a pack of string cheese from the grocery store and eating all of it on the car ride home. It was an era of just us girls. Mom always made S and me sit in the back seat where it was safer because the old Bug had no seatbelts. I insisted on sitting in the seat directly behind her because it meant that I was the closest person to her. I was my mom’s personal little shadow for the first 2/3rds of my life.

Each memory we have of her is a little piece of what she left for us. A remembers singing in the Christmas music program in grade school. Everyone watched her sing, smiling and silently cheering her on. But when she would look at mom she would see that mom was actually mouthing the words to make sure A wouldn’t forget them. Afterward, mom congratulated A for doing so well – all on her own.

The best memories are those that make you pause for a moment and say to yourself – wow that is so mom. A story that S mentioned earlier does just this. When S first started kindergarten, she had to walk two blocks from school to the baby-sitter’s house at the end of the day. Mom was worried that S might get lost, so she came up with one of her genius solutions: She used chalk to draw arrows on the sidewalk for S to follow. Mom marked the path so she could finish up at work without worrying. But in the end, she took off work anyway and followed S home, just to be sure.

Sometimes, what my mom found hilarious may not have been quite as humorous to us kids, like the day B was first allowed to get behind the wheel of a car. He was ready to back the car out of the driveway, and mom was riding shotgun – visibly nervous before the car was even started. B was so bad at backing out the car – jerking backward, hitting the breaks, jerking backward, hitting the breaks – that when he finally got the car to the side of the road, mom jumped out and said, “I can’t believe you’re that bad – I seriously thought I was going to die!” She laughed, everyone laughed. But B wasn’t laughing later when he wasn’t allowed behind the wheel for another two months.

Mom was there for everything. She would watch Z play Halo on the Xbox for hours just to spend some time with him. Sure, she would complain about the gratuitous violence or the sheer stupidity of the game but she would sit there and, at the very least, pretend to be interested in what Z liked so much.

The five of us were always our mom’s first priority. She did a fabulous job as our mother and as our friend. And as all of us celebrate her life that is one of the things we have to be happiest for. That’s what she would want. Not that we cry for what we don’t have, but that we smile and laugh as we go through the tremendous archive of memories she helped us make. They’ll never run out.

School Buses, Betty Boop, Spinning Wheels, & a Coke

As I drive through my neighborhood in the morning all the little kiddies tra-la-la-la-la onto the big yellow school bus. The school bus that I inevitably get stuck behind as it stops at each…and…every…single…house…on the block. What ever happened to a good old-fashioned bus stop? You know, the kind at the end of the street that you walk to. Is this unheard of anymore?

The only year I ever had to take the bus was when I was in the first grade. We lived in Japan at the time so my sister S and I had to commute to an American school on the island. I remember stepping into the bus to find kids swinging like Kerri Strug from the parallel handlebars that spanned the center isle. Our poor, unfortunate school bus driver, who did not speak a lick of English, would get so angry when kids would pull the windows down past the safety line and stick their heads outside the bus. He would yell. We would laugh at the jibberish noises he made. We would eventually calm down long enough to draw butt cheeks on the fogged up windows before resuming our swing-half-turns on the high bar. Eventually the school rallied up some volunteer parents to sit on the bus with us during the morning and afternoon commutes. There weren’t, however, enough parents to ride with us every day. Poor school bus driver, he never knew from one day to the next if it was going to be a good day on the job or a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. (If you got that reference, you’ve earned yourself some pie!)

I got a little off track with that story… my point; I made some absolutely fabulous friends at that bus stop. We would compare what our mom’s made us for lunch. I automatically envied those who got to eat a hot lunch that day while I carried around my Barbie and the Rocker’s lunch box with matching thermos. (Although, I mist admit, my mom made some pretty kick ass cold lunches.) I often traded my oatmeal cream pie for a baggie of apple slices. Cream filling is just not my thing.

These kids that get picked up at the end of their driveways are missing out on an amazing bus stop experience.

My morning commute continues down a major thoroughfare with nothing of interest to speak of until I turn off onto a route that very few know about. I keep this knowledge to myself in order to keep traffic to a minimum. From this point it’s actually a very picturesque drive. I make my way through a very hoity-toity neighborhood that has their very own clubhouse, golf course, and park. During morning drive times, the fuzz will hang out behind large gates and shrubbery in order to catch you going anything over the allotted 25 miles per hour. I’ve got them outwitted though. I know all of their hiding spots. Red Betty (I named my car after Betty Boop) and I are too smart for the likes of them! Ha ha!

Before I make my way into downtown Springfield, the last of the scenery is a park. It’s just like any old park; trails, swing sets, and dog poop. However, this park has one thing that not many others can lay claim to. About once a month there is a group of women that meet in an open area of the park to spin thread on their (a little fanfare, please) spinning wheels! Real life, honest-to-goodness, Sleeping Beauty, 16th birthday, spinning wheels! Is this a common hobby? I never thought of this as something many people do on their own time let alone an entire group of people in the same community who share this bizarre interest. Where do you even go to purchase a spinning wheel? When and how does one become interested in spinning thread on a wheel? This discovery was so mind-blowing to me the first time I caught a glimpse of their unusual get-together. I stared them down in passing until I realized I had switched lanes and was driving down the wrong side of the street. Sometimes, as I am on my way back to work from lunch I will see the small collection of spinning artisans and think to myself, "I would rather be playing on a spinning wheel than going back to work." What would I spin on that wheel? I can do it, how hard could it be?

As I make my way into downtown traffic gets thicker, the red lights get longer, and the homeless people run amuck. Springfield has major issues with the homeless population. Twice I’ve had run-ins with those in need but so far I’m 0 for 2. The first time, I was running an errand for work. I had to walk about two blocks down the street to drop off some proofs and right outside my office building there was a man. He asked me for anything I could offer. I had nothing on me other than the manila envelope containing the samples. I didn’t think sample pieces of a brochure would be of any use to him so I had to tell him that I had nothing to give. He and I walked in opposite directions and I was wracked with guilt. He probably thought I just didn’t want to give him anything. He probably thinks I’m a bitchy, rich person who is not willing to part with a solitary dime.

This directly leads into my second run-in with a woman who was over-heated, parched, and needed a phone number. Because of my last experience, I was more than willing to help. Bridge Man and I were downtown taking in the sights when she came up to us. She began talking about her car that had just run out of gas. Her kids were with the car and she needed the number for a local women’s shelter because she had to get away from her abusive man. I told her that I would buy her a drink from a nearby ice cream shop where we could also ask to use their phone book. She then proceeded to tell me that she wasn’t comfortable going into that shop and that we should follow her to a bar that was just around the corner. We followed. Bridge Man expressed his concerns. He didn’t think following a stranger to an unknown place was a good idea. We went inside the bar with her. She decided instead of water she wanted a coke. We walked outside where we were suddenly surrounded by people. They all knew her name and she started talking to a few of them. One of them came up to Bridge Man and me and asked if we had any money to give him. This is where I began to feel uncomfortable. The woman then asked if I had any money to give her so she could put some gas in her car. Bridge Man intervened. He said that we had no money and that we were leaving. He grabbed my arm and we were outta there.

Once again, I was unable to help. I know that the situation wasn’t the best but what if her kids were really somewhere with her abandoned car? What if her man really was abusive to her and her kids? I did nothing to help. Strike two.

...

Well, I just reread this entire post. Made changes. Then almost deleted the entire thing. I basically just rambled on for days and days, made no point, came to no conclusion. But after all that work and my nagging bloggers block, I couldn't get myself to hit delete. So, here is my conclusion. I think bus stops should be reinvented. I would like to learn to use a spinning wheel. And I don’t have good people skills with the homeless. I’m done.

My Love

The love of my life is the great state of California. (Bridge Man, of course, is the human love of my life but that’s a separate blog.) From the moment my family moved out of Cali, I’ve longed to go back. That is where my extended family lives, where my memories are, and where my heart belongs.

When I’m talking about California, I don’t necessarily mean, the state itself. What I love about Cali is something that only I know. It’s something that only I’ve experienced. Yes, the weather is nice, the ocean is beautiful, and there is always something to do but these reasons reside at the bottom of my list.

When I was little I belonged to a group of three friends who did everything together, my sister S and my aunt D. My sister is about two and a half years older than me and my aunt is just under two years older than me so I was the baby who shadowed them all day long. I know for a fact that I annoyed them because I was too young to play with the big girls. Regularly they would lock me out of D’s room so I couldn’t play Barbies with them. I would run to my grandma with crocodile tears in my eyes and she would force them to play with me. I was persistent in this way until I was old enough to fit into their little gang.

Not many people were allowed in our clique. A girl named Megan lived down the street from my grandparent’s house and she always wanted to play with us. Megan was an only child and was allowed to do a lot more than we were. The four of us would play together but eventually we would get annoyed with Megan and not want to play with her anymore. We didn’t like that her mom let her do anything; she got to wear acrylic nails, she had a bunk bed in her bedroom, and she could do a front-walk-over better than we could. So what did we do? We created a club for the three of us called “The We Hate Megan Club.” We were totally serious about the club. D was the president, S the VP, and I was the secretary. We would hold meetings once a week to discuss — well, I can’t remember. Though, I’m sure it had something to do with how much we hated poor Megan. We would turn on an Alvin and the Chipmunks tape or a Dr. Demento tape and play in the backyard until the coast was clear.

After an afternoon of ripping the lemons from my grandma’s lemon tree and throwing them in neighboring yards, doing cartwheels on my grandpa’s perfectly preened yard, and riding our bikes around the circle drive, it was time to go inside. My grandma scheduled dinners out for each day of the week; Monday was meatloaf night, Tuesday was Mexican night, Wednesday was chili night, and so on. Friday was my favorite because it was fast food night and I always, always, always got a kids meal for the free toy that usually ended up broken or missing by the end of the night. We would play Super Mario Brothers on the Nintendo with my Uncle K. He would play until he got to the coolest levels in the game and then he would let us play until we killed off Mario and he’d have to start over again. When he got sick of that he would lie on his back and hold us up in the air with his feet until we became green in the face. He was one friggin’ great uncle.

When it was bedtime, we three amigas would crowd over the sink in the bathroom to see who could make the most foam in the sink with the toothpaste while brushing our teeth. D usually won that game. I would then beg and plead with my mom to let me sleep in my Aunt B’s room because she was older and cooler than me and would let me stay up late. B had a trundle bed and I would sleep on the pullout bed from underneath. We would stay up and talk for hours. I always felt so COOL when she would let me hang out with her.

Sometimes she would let me lay out with her. We would just lie there in out teeny-bikinis and fry in the sun. Once we were good and burnt, we would go inside to soothe our burns with vinegar soaked paper towels. It was so, SO stinky but felt so, SO soothing. No one but my family has heard of this sunburn remedy so I can probably predict your reaction. Give it a try before you judge. I promise, you’ll never go back to that green aloe goo.

I've been back to California several times since my family originally moved away and each time I've felt the same excitement that can only come with the memory of playing Marco Polo in a one-foot deep plastic pool in my grandparent's backyard.

Dear Nephew,

In the beginning there was the diaper. There’s nothing like a clean diaper to free up some time in your day to sufficiently eat, sleep, and drool. But there comes a point when you want to rid yourself of the plastic, crinkly sponge on your bottom in lieu of some fancy-pants Underoos.

The idea of being a “big boy” permeates your brain and you find yourself randomly shouting “Poops, Mommy! I poops!” The room fills with excitement as family members cheer you on from the sidelines while you and mommy race toward the potty only to find out that you’ve already soiled your new Elmo Underoos. There are encouraging words from mommy, “It’s ok. You’ll get it next time, sweetie.”

After so many failed attempts, something changes in your head. “Why should I use the big boy potty when Mommy does such a fabulous job changing my dirty diapers for me?”

Unfortunately, mommy doesn’t get this concept. She insists on making you wear your big boy underwear and making you use the big boy potty. Who says you even want to be a big boy?

From then on, the words ‘big-boy,’ ‘potty,’ and ‘Underoos’ make you want to flush those screenprinted Elmo undies down that stinking toilet. Each time mommy makes you use the – the, uh, P-word - you throw a tantrum that supersedes the last. She can’t make you go if you arch your back to make it nearly impossible to pick you up or if you flail your arms and legs to make the most painful and precise contact or if you wail like James Brown in a bear trap. It works every time.

And so, my dear nephew, I write you this letter to simply say, more power to you. Stand your ground! Who needs the potty anyway?

Love,
Aunt Xteener

Blog By Numbers

1. The job hunt has begun in full force this last week. Big Boss Man made sure to reiterate in a particularly nerve-wracking meeting this week that she just can’t muster up the time for me, “If I’m spending my time with you, then my work is not getting done.” (This is where I begin banging my head against the wall and mumbling something about a stapler.) Anyway, I’ve updated my resume, references, and cover letter and the hunt is officially on!

2. Bridge Man and I are going to St. Louis this weekend for a trip to the zoo. I’m excited because it will be the first time I’ve ever been to a zoo, believe it or not. I’m also a little nervous because I tend to get a little PETA around caged animals. By the end of the weekend the Show Me State might be taken over by a literal zoo of newly freed animals.

3. My little brother (who just happens to be 6’4 and over 200lbs) has recently become a quasi celebrity in my little hometown. It’s a little surreal for me. The high school football season has commenced and suddenly everyone knows his name. Old men who’ve followed redbird football since 1776 will stop him at the local grocery store to tell him exactly how to perfect his screen pass. He’s only a freshman, people!


4. My mom finally got a new oncologist. Finally! I haven't taken the time to blog about this in the past because it will take me at least two full weeks and many mojitos to completely detail the saga. Maybe this will come in a future post or maybe I’ll give you bits and pieces here and there. We’ll see. Let’s just say, her first oncologist kept her well in the dark about her treatments and what was going on inside her body. Her new doc took the time to answer all of her questions and, so far, seems very helpful. This, I like.

5. I went to a wedding this last weekend and what do you know...

One of these things is just like everything else. The black and white flowery dresses must have been on sale that week.

The Green Eyed Monster

I am a member of two online social networks where thousands flock to get a daily dose of creeping on the people they don’t really know. Before I was hip to the crazies out there, my profiles were open for everyone and their brother to see. Almost daily I would get a message or a friend invite from someone named Tiffany or Bunny who proudly parade pictures of themselves in negligees for all to see. I eventually wised up to this and made every online profile I’ve created as private as private can be. Now the only people who can creep on me are those that I choose. It’s amazing the relationships that have rekindled from these networks. I can now have daily conversations with people that I haven’t seen or heard from in years.

Lately, it seems like I’ve been catching up with a lot of people from high school. It’s like an online class reunion. This person now lives in Colorado. That person moved to California right after college. So-and-so works for a huge conglomerate in NYC. And what’s-his-face is moving to Texas in a few months. After hearing their stories I can’t help but be jealous. How did they manage to remove themselves from central Illinois?

I had a conversation with one of my closest friends, J, recently:

J: I have to go to St. Louis soon to check out everything with the Navy.
Me: So you’re really going to do the Navy thing?
J: I don’t know. I want to keep my options open.
Me: What are your other options?
J: I want to move to Colorado.
Me: You suck. I don’t even have the option of leaving this hole.
J: Yea, it’s nice.

It’s not that I don’t like life in Corn Country. My nuclear family lives here, I enjoy changes in the seasons (to an extent), my man (Bridge Man) and his family live here, and… well, that’s about it. Those are the reasons I’m staying.

More specifically:
- Bridge Man doesn’t want to move too far away from his family.
- My mom is not in the best of health and I want to be near her for anything that she needs.
- My nephew is only 2 years old and I don’t want to miss these vital, growing-up years. He needs to know his Aunt Xteener.

Yet, there are so many other reasons for me to leave. I could get a different, better, and a more rewarding job anywhere my heart desires. I want to experience different things and people and cultures. I want to have these experiences under my belt before I finally decide to settle down. I even have a mental list of all the places I want to live.

Yes, my reasons are selfish. I understand this. But what’s a girl to do?

No, really… what should I do?

My cat, Pepper...

... went into liver failure and had to be put to sleep last week.

I miss him so much.

What Your Family Doesn't Know...

Last weekend I went to my old college roommate's wedding, G. She married a guy, S, that lived two doors down from us in the dorms. It was an especially emotional event for me because I had known them both before they decided to get hitched. During the ceremony the reverend made mention of the beginning of their relationship and how it all began. He didn't go into specifics but, if you would, turn your gaze to the SIU alumni sitting third pew from the front:

We (the SIU alumni) sat politely in our church garb with smirks on our faces remembering that fateful night. There were no long walks along Campus Lake. S did not whisper sweet nothings in G's ear. They did not stare deeply into each other’s eyes and realize - at that very moment - that they were forever meant to be together.

The night started, for S, with an innocent game of poker and some smuggled Sparks with his buddies in the dorms. After S emptied his wallet and downed a few beers he headed off to bed. The poker game continued without him into the wee hours of the morning.

For G, her dear friend (me) took her to a house party where we met up with a couple of friends. It was the traditional 'girls night out.' We drank Boones Farm from plastic martini glasses, sang karaoke to whatever song was on the radio, graduated from Boones to vodka shots (you know, the six dollar kind), and danced on the furniture into the night.

After we were done "shakin' our g-thangs" we headed back to the dorms to happily find the poker party still in session. After joining in the festivities for a while, G wandered off to what we assumed was her own room. A while later she returned and slurred, "Wherzze S?" (That translates to "Where's S?" for those of you who don't speak fluent drunk.) Not thinking anything about it, we pointed her in the direction of S's room. She entered, tried to close the door, and failed. As the poker party simmered down we started to wonder what G and S were up to for so long and why they didn't come join the fiesta. We pushed open the ajar door and (I'm sure you can see where this is going) once our eyes adjusted to the dark and we saw the moving lump under the cover, the poker party of 10 year-old college students broke into squeals and giggles and hurriedly slammed the door.

And that, children, is the story of how G and S began their relationship. And as I sat in that pew, I wondered (as I'm sure my SIU counterparts were also wondering) what S & G's parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, 2nd cousins, nieces, and nephews thought had brought the lovebirds together. Did they innocently imagine the two took a moonlight stroll through the quads to the gymnasium? Or was it a quiet, candle lit dinner in the dining hall? I highly doubt any of them knew that a few bottles of Boones Farm and a 6-pack of Sparks would bring us all together to watch as S and G entered into the sanctity of marriage.

An now, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the lovely new couple, Mr. and Mrs. S.